


Thin Ice

by electropeach



Category: Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, everyone is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electropeach/pseuds/electropeach
Summary: Abruptly, she needed to move, to do something. She had no idea whether they had been on the road for five days or six, no idea what was left in their packs. She had spent the last few days in a stunned sort of mist, taking little to no part in the chores of setting up camp, taking care of their mounts, and preparing food. She was of the Mountains, had known how to hunt and cook and live outdoors since earliest childhood, and here she was, moping like a trueborn Buck lady.Kettricken and the Fool's journey to the Mountain Kingdom.
Relationships: FitzChivalry Farseer & The Fool, Kettricken & the Fool, Verity Farseer/Kettricken
Comments: 20
Kudos: 30





	Thin Ice

A leader. An example. A Sacrifice. A princess, even, or a queen, whatever those foreign titles truly meant. Those were things she had expected to be, had been excited to become. A wife and a mother.

Not a widow, or a traitor, or a fugitive.

She kept turning the events of her life since her marriage around in her mind, looking for something she could have done differently. Oh, she should have paid more attention to the old King, noticed that there was something unnatural about his fading, she thought, and then knew that she had been too late to save him already when she had arrived at Buckkeep. Ah, but she should have gone with her lord husband on his quest, just as she had told him, and perhaps one more bow would have turned the tide and saved Verity, and perhaps she could have done no more but die beside him - but in either case, Regal would have been free to make his move on the throne. No. She should have never mentioned the Elderlings, should have never let Verity leave; brazen though he was, surely Regal would have never dared move against him then.

Like as not he would have felt no need to do so, her mind reminded her bitterly, for Verity's Skilling had taken such a toll on him as to drain him of all life. Sooner or later the people would have turned to Regal for a stronger, healthier, and more visible king, if the Skilling did not claim him first.

Round and round her thoughts went, spinning wild what-ifs and alternate versions of the events of the past year. She should have been a proper Buck Queen-in-waiting, draped in jewelry and silk, and perhaps the rest of the court would have not found her so strange, would have taken her side more readily. She should have let others go riding after the Forged, not drawn such attention to herself, not be seen taking action while her husband seemed idle. No, she had to go further back. She should have never believed a word out of Regal's mouth. She should have never taken poor Fitz into her confidence, marking him as a target. She should have never...

And there her mind hesitated, her hand finding the slight swell of her belly and pressing gently against the new life growing within. Should have never agreed to marry Verity? Would none of this have happened if she had but remained in the Mountains?

"My lady," someone said softly, and she felt a gentle hand on her arm. Blinking back into the present, she looked up at King Shrewd's fool. _Verity's fool, now_ , something whispered in the back of her mind. Only her husband was dead. Did that make him her fool, then? The boy was looking at her with concern in his strange pale eyes, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. The little fire at her feet painted half of his face golden and left the other half in shadow, giving him an impression of color that he otherwise lacked.

Kettricken shifted against the fallen log she was huddled on, surprised at how stiff her body felt; she must have sat still for a while. For quite a while, she amended guiltily as she glanced about and discovered that in the meantime, the Fool had not only found dry wood and started a fire, but also heated water for tea and started on food. Ah, and fed and brushed the horses, she noticed with approval.

The scent rising from the bubbling little kettle on the fire made her stomach roil at first, and then growl. She made a face; how could she be at once nauseous and ravenous?

The Fool seemed to take the expression to mean she did not want the tea. “My lady, I must insist,” he said, “you need something hot, and the stew will take some time yet. I’ll not lose three members of the royal family within a week.” There was no hitch in his voice as he said that, but she could almost hear it.

Abashed, she took the cup, if only to warm her fingers around it. The Fool gave her a fragile sort of smile, and turned to tend to the fire, soon turning to their meager supplies for something to add flavor to the stew. After almost a week on the run, they were running low on fresh ingredients. The last of the meat pilfered from the keep’s kitchens had gone into the kettle the day before; today it was just vegetables and broth. They had travel rations, salted beef and dry crackers, she thought – and how had she not been more interested in the preparations, more aware of what was packed and where, how could she have allowed Fitz and Burrich to handle it all – but she guessed that the Fool was saving them for when they would truly need them. The jester had fished out a single onion and was giving it a contemplative frown as though it held all the answers to their plight, so their reserves were likely more scarce than she had suspected.

Abruptly, she needed to move, to do something. She had no idea whether they had been on the road for five days or six, no idea what was left in their packs. She had spent the last few days in a stunned sort of mist, taking little to no part in the chores of setting up camp, taking care of their mounts, and preparing food. She was of the Mountains, had known how to hunt and cook and live outdoors since earliest childhood, and here she was, moping like a trueborn Buck lady.

She drank the tea quickly, for it had already cooled almost too much to be of any warmth, and then moved forward to kneel next to the Fool. “Here, let me,” she said, taking the onion from the boy’s hand. He had taken his gloves off to prepare it, and she winced at the brief contact with his icy fingers. "You should rest, get warm."

The Fool didn't resist, but watched her take the onion as though she had stolen a favorite toy from him, his hands falling to rest limply in his lap. Like a puppet with his strings cut, she thought, immobile and lifeless the moment his task was taken from him. She eyed him and was chagrined to see how miserable he looked, kneeling on the frozen ground with the night breeze tugging at his flyaway hair.

Their abrupt departure had forced them to leave with only a fraction of the supplies they had been supposed to have, she knew, her winter clothes among those left behind. The Fool, too, had been unable to retrieve his pack, and so they were left with only what Burrich had prepared for himself. Burrich's cloak was draped over her shoulders, his shirt worn as a long jacket over the dress she had worn that night, belted at the waist. The Fool had changed his motley into a long shirt and leggings Burrich had evidently meant for Fitz, in the faint hope that the boy would join them. Divested of his motley, bells and make up, and dressed in clothes meant for a taller and brawnier boy, the sleeves rolled up and the cloak dragging on the ground whenever he stood, he seemed diminished, small and birdlike, like a loud sound might be enough to shatter him. His pale eyes were stricken and seemed too large in his white face.

He was mourning.

It jolted Kettricken to realize that the mocking, jeering creature she had known in Buckkeep had truly loved the old King so deeply, and it suddenly shamed her that she had been so absorbed in her own grief over Verity and the uncertain fate of her unborn child that she had failed to see her companion's loss. She would look after him, now, she decided, and if he was the only one of Verity’s people she could protect and lead, then at least she could do right by her husband in that one matter.

When the Fool had still not moved by the time she had sloppily chopped the onion and added it into the stew, she turned and gently took him by the shoulders to guide him to sit on the log she had just abandoned. The boy flinched at her touch, startling out of his blank stare to give her a wide-eyed look that twisted something painfully in her heart. Oh, how young he looked, suddenly, and how old and sorrowful at the same time.

“Please rest,” she begged him, and he relaxed somewhat, perhaps soothed by her tone. “You have done nothing but taken care of me out here. Let me tend to the fire and see to the food, for once.”

The Fool resisted her, but feebly, as through her taking charge had sapped his strength out of him. Finally, he subsided and sat on the log, immediately curling up in a miserable ball. He pulled his cloak more closely around his narrow shoulders with white fingers and shivered. “You must live, my lady,” he said, his low voice barely a whisper. “And the child must live. The Farseer line must survive. Oh, my king.” His eyes filled with tears suddenly, and Kettricken’s throat felt tight at the sight of his grief, so plainly written on his delicate face.

“And live we will,” she said firmly, her voice barely wavering, “and so shall you. And we will see our friends again, and rid the Six Duchies of its enemies.” She reached out, slowly this time so the jester could see her hands approaching, and set her hands on the boy’s shoulders. More gently, she added, “This I swear, on my lord husband’s honor. This I swear, on my brother’s grave.”

There was a strange shine to the Fool’s eyes as he met her earnest gaze, something that had nothing to do with tears. “Oh, my king,” he repeated slowly. “That’s Verity, now, isn’t it? Fitz was so sure it was Verity, still, and not Regal. That there was a way he could reach Verity…”

Kettricken’s heart was in her throat, and the Fool’s was in his eyes. She wanted to ask, but she knew that if the Fool knew whether Fitz had succeeded, he would have said so. He only knew that his king had died for Fitz’s attempt to reach for her dead love.

The Fool’s fingers were shockingly cold as they found Kettricken’s hand on his shoulder and moved it to take her hand in his. “My lady,” he murmured, his strange pale eyes on their hands rather than her face, “my queen. I loved my king dearly, and would have followed him to the very edge of the world. I could not protect him. I could not protect King-in-Waiting Verity. King Verity.” His voice faltered, and he hesitated, before looking up into her eyes and going on with more passion than she had thought a creature so devoid of color capable of. “Let me protect you. Let me protect my new prince or princess. Let me keep serving my king so, even if he is gone.”

“Oh, my friend,” Kettricken breathed, and as she said it, she knew it to be true. This one was a friend who offered nothing but the utmost loyalty, nothing but his very best. She placed her other hand on top of their joined hands, sealing the Fool’s cold fingers between her warm ones. “Of course, and always.”

And she swore that she would likewise protect him, and serve him, like a Sacrifice should. For despite his brave words and the clear fire of his determination, he seemed so frail to her, and a cold fear clutched at her heart that he might not even make the harsh journey to her homeland.

But for all her good intentions, the mist soon claimed her again, and in the following days it was so difficult to remember what it had been that had seemed so important back then. She was so tired, and so frequently sick, and the Fool was an overbearing little ghost hovering over her shoulder when she scrambled away from their little fire to vomit what little she had managed to eat away from their camp. She noticed, in a distant way, that the Fool had taken to saving some of their food for later, for the dark hours edging on dawn, when she finally felt stable enough to stomach some of it. When she had the energy, she wondered how there could be food left then with their dwindling supplies, wondered if she was being fed the boy's share, but the jester was always conveniently busy with something when she thought to ask. 

She rallied at times, managed to clear her head enough to care, enough to shoulder her share of their chores, but it didn’t escape her that soon the Fool only trusted her with the ones that were the least physically taxing. She wanted to protest at that, wanted to point out that she was not only bigger than the slight boy, but likely more used to an active life spent outdoors. She would have, if only she hadn’t felt so queasy, so weak. More often than not, when she was tending the fire and watching their meal bubble in the kettle – for these sedentary tasks were the only ones she could now reliably accomplish – she rested her hands on her swelling belly and wondered if pregnancy was always like this, if all women were so incapacitated by yielding half their lives to creating new life.

Sometimes, she was convinced that this wasn’t right, not how it was supposed to be, certainly not what she had been told by the women of her family, and she resented herself for being weak. Sometimes, she knew that she had been lied to, that it was always like this, and she resented the little creature that sapped her strength and will when she needed them the most. And only a moment later, she was horrified at her own thoughts, and wept as she rode forward, whispering her apologies to Verity, to their unborn child, murmuring them like a prayer and releasing them to the wind.

They passed villages and farms, and the Fool sometimes lagged behind only to catch up to her with a loaf of bread, a bag of winter apples, or a worn piece of clothing. Kettricken folded her lips at the thefts, but it wasn’t like she could pay for them right now, and the Fool assured her that when he could, he traded rather than pilfered, and never stole if he judged the owner’s need of the item greater than theirs. Little by little he managed to replace some of their wardrobe, trading the fine silks of her dress and his motley piece by piece for simpler clothes and fabrics, which he then fashioned to suit their needs.

When the winter gales howled and the snow came as a hard sleet, they finally dared the inns and taverns they had avoided so far out of fear of being recognized. Here the Fool's skills became evident, for with the few pieces of clothing he could disguise them differently for each town and inn. 

"You are a lady of minor nobility," he would say, tucking his hair under the loose cap of a page boy, and then fussing over her hair and clothes to create her character, "and I am your page. We have become separated from our entourage on our way to Farrow to visit your ladyship's relatives, and my lady is very exhausted by our harrowing journey. Your lord husband’s valet carried your money, but you are quite certain that your husband will be thrilled to reimburse any and all expenses caused by our stay."

Or Kettricken would be roused from her thoughts to see a young girl hoisting their packs on Sooty, her hair braided and given both color and substance by carefully combing a bit of mud through it. "You are a merchant's wife from Siltbay," the girl would say, gathering her skirts in her hands as she stepped over the remnants of their fire to help Kettricken up, "and I am your younger sister, come from the Mountains to help you with your first child. The Raiders took your husband and home, and we are trying to make our way back to our parents."

There wasn't much the Fool could do to disguise her gender, her Mountain heritage, and her growing belly, but by disguising himself, he tried to make it more difficult for any who sought a jester and a queen. He was Kettricken's page and sister, maid and brother, and sometimes, when he trusted Kettricken to feel well enough that she could appear to be traveling alone, he was a traveling minstrel or tumbler. He sang and juggled for money, and when they had no coin and there was no crowd to admire his performance, he worked for their lodgings. Kettricken tried to protest several times, but the Fool deflected all her attempts to do so. 

They had several close encounters with Regal's men, most of which they managed to avoid by blending into the crowd. While towns and inns posed the danger of someone recognizing them and pointing the soldiers their way, they also provided more cover than the open road. Twice they caused a brawl to escape detection, and once the Fool, in his page boy's disguise, walked right up to the commander of their pursuers and pestered him with questions about a soldier's life like a starstruck child until the man decided to cut their search of that particular tavern short to escape the interrogation.

Outdoors, they had less options, and so they frequently left the road whenever the surrounding scenery provided even the slightest cover. This was not often, for they had left Buck River behind some days ago, and now had to cross the wide, flat plains of Farrow to the Blue Lake. The lack of cover made for a mind-wracking journey of poorly slept nights spent keeping watch, and any little bit of woods was a welcome refuge.

Even that wasn't always enough, and so one early morning Kettricken woke up with a rough hand gripping her hair hard and giving her a shake. They had ventured far from the road last night, seeking the cover of a small forest on the banks of a little stream, and evidently their pursuers had guessed as much. Alarmed but woefully groggy from heavy sleep, she scrambled to her knees in the snow, made a chocked sound and tried to pry the fingers from her hair, her eyes tearing up at the pain in her scalp.

"There's our wildling queen!" a voice said, and two others joined it in laughter. Blinking the tears from her eyes and gritting her teeth, Kettricken forced herself to look at the soldiers that had caught up with them. Two men and a woman, the other man searching their little camp, while the woman crouched before her and took her chin in her gloved hand to inspect her face. No sign of the Fool, she noted with something teetering between fear and relief, before the hand on her chin brought her attention back to her own situation by twisting her face roughly first one way, then the other.

"That's her," the woman confirmed, "saw her once, when King Regal was taking her to wed his mad brother. By El, she's even bigger and uglier now." The woman grimaced at her travel-stained clothes, her mourning-shorn hair, and her face, red from the cold and tear-streaked from the unyielding grip on her hair.

King Regal! A fury such as she had never felt in her life surged unexpectedly through Kettricken's entire body, and she felt her lips curl in a snarl, her muscles tensing in preparation for an attack. Before she could make her move, however, the woman's head jerked abruptly to the side; a small stone had hit her in the jaw, leaving an angry red gash in its wake.

"Good morning!" called a sing-song voice, and the three soldiers and Kettricken turned to see the Fool standing a small distance away, apparently perfectly relaxed, their kettle balanced on one jutting hip and juggling two more stones in his free hand. His hair was damp; that was how the soldiers had managed to sneak up on them, Kettricken realized, he had been bathing and getting water from the nearby stream. "Has Regal exhausted Buckkeep's reserves of trained valets, then, that he sends his thugs after me? I'll humbly admit that there can be no better valet for a true king than yours truly, but alas, I'm afraid I would find Regal just as exhausting as all his previous valets." He tilted his head and grinned. "Unless, of course, he sent you to find him a fool, in which case he might have just as well kept you three!" Up, down, up and down went the two stones, and then he flicked his wrist, and the man holding Kettricken's hair suddenly let go with a hissed curse.

Her senses were sharper than they had been for many days, even weeks, and that was all the distraction Kettricken needed. Her belt knife was meant for everyday tasks, not combat, but it cut the man's thigh all the same as she scrambled to her feet and away from him. The female soldier recovered enough to make a grab at her, but missed, and Kettricken managed a kick in her shoulder, sending her sprawling in the snow. 

The man Kettricken thought was their leader was clutching at his wounded thigh and roaring orders to his companions, giving the woman still trying to catch her breath in the snow an angry shove in Kettricken's direction. The other man, she saw, had drawn his sword and was trying to approach the Fool, but the jester kept dancing just outside of his reach and pelting him with mocking words and little pebbles from the kettle.

Kettricken had managed to get her bag and was halfway to their mounts by the time the woman caught up with her. The other woman's sword was drawn, and only a wild swing of the bag dangling from Kettricken's hand saved her, not only blocking the thrust but tangling the strap around the blade. For a split second, the two women stared at each other, bag and sword hanging in a tangled mess between them, and then Kettricken yanked, putting her weight behind it. Bigger and uglier, indeed, she thought vehemently as her superior size upset the smaller woman's balance yet again, and before she could scramble back to her feet, Kettricken planted her foot on the soldier's sword hand and ground down with enough force to make her howl and release the sword.

Both bag and sword clutched tight, Kettricken whirled and made a dash for their mounts, sword slashing through the rope loosely tying them to a nearby tree. Even with adrenaline coursing through her veins she had to admire Burrich's training; where most horses would have been alarmed to the point of panicking by the commotion, Sooty seemed absolutely serene, and Ruddy was already dancing towards her, as though eager to join the fray. In a split-second decision, she opted for the latter as more suited for this situation, rather than the placid Sooty she had been riding so far. Her belly got in the way as she struggled to mount the unsaddled Ruddy, but a quick look over her shoulder revealed the man she had stabbed limping towards her as fast as he could, and suddenly she found the strength to pull herself up.

Bag slung over her back, the makeshift reins of the rope still hanging loosely from Ruddy's neck in one hand and the stolen sword in another, she glanced over her shoulder. _Think, Kettricken, think_! She could stay and fight, but there were three of them, properly armed and armored, and she had but one sword and a tattered dress. Escaping without the Fool was not an option. Her mind raced as she considered the soldiers' actions so far. She could just try to grab the Fool and make a run for it, but these soldiers had not come by foot, and they would be on them again just as quickly. Her mind made up, she decided that taking care of pursuit was her first course of action, and moved out of the camp, clicking her tongue to urge Sooty to follow. Her heart was hammering and fear for the Fool clutched at her chest, but if they were to have any hope of escaping, she would have to trust the boy to fend for himself while she made sure they couldn't pursue them soon.

The soldiers had managed to sneak up on her, so they had left their mounts some distance away. She had only to follow their footprints in the snow, and sure enough, soon she came upon three horses whinnying nervously and tugging at the ropes tying them to a branch. One glance was enough to tell her that these weren't mounts trained for battle; no doubt the good horses Regal had sent inland had gone as bribes to his noble supporters and relatives, leaving his growing army with mounts meant for pulling carts or traveling long distances. That made her task easy.

The stolen sword cut through the ropes easily, and if the mere sight of a strange, sword-wielding human astride a strange horse wasn't enough to scare the poor beasts away, the sword smacking against the branches above them and sending the snow piled on them tumbling down over their backs did the trick. Terrified and freed, they bolted away from her, and soon vanished into the woods.

Quick pursuit so prevented, she guided Ruddy around and beckoned Sooty to follow. Worry for the Fool gnawed at her as she urged the horses forward, and when she was close enough to hear shouts and curses, the clang of metal on metal, she felt as though she had swallowed a block of ice. She entered the little clearing that had served as their campsite at as full a gallop as she dared in the forest, just in time to see the Fool's failed attempt to escape by clambering up a tree. 

A quick glance to assess the situation showed the man she had last seen going after the Fool, lying unconscious on the ground with their split kettle abandoned next to him, and the woman, now armed with the fallen man's sword, advancing on the Fool. The man Kettricken had stabbed had made it to the jester, had grabbed him by the ankle as he tried to climb higher up the tree, and yanked him down with enough force that the boy's head bounced against the trunk of the tree before he landed heavily on the ground.

"No!" someone screamed as the man crouched over the dazed Fool, and Kettricken had barely recognized the voice as her own before she had raised her sword and spurred Ruddy forward. The female soldier turned to face her, sword raised, but Kettricken was on her faster than she had anticipated. Her blood was red and very bright on the trampled snow.

Later, she would wonder what the man saw when he looked up at her with widening eyes, whether it was merely the sight of her towering over him with a raised sword, or if it was her anger, her desperation, her mad glee at finally doing something, fighting back, showing in her expression. With a yelp, the soldier threw himself aside, rolling off the Fool, just barely avoiding the heavy blow that threatened to cleave his shoulder from his torso. Kettricken was dimly aware that she was a better swordswoman than this, but her arm was already weary with the unfamiliar sword, and this was a man who had attacked her friend, attacked the last remaining piece of what Verity had left in her care. All else she had lost, had had taken from her, and she would hack and slash and spill blood before she would let them take this one.

"Fool!" Her voice cracked on the call, for he looked so still and so pale, but at her plea, his eyes fluttered open. In a heartbeat, he seemed to register that his attacker was no longer hovering over him, and that she had returned with their mounts, and he lurched to his feet with none of his usual grace. Disoriented, he staggered towards Sooty. Kettricken raised her sword again at seeing the man behind him get back on his feet and gave Sooty a quick, desperate glance, wishing she could sense her urgency and move to meet the Fool halfway.

She did.

Kettricken didn't stop to wonder at her luck, but moved to block the soldier while the Fool slowly dragged himself on Sooty's back. The mare even turned her head to gently bump her face against the boy's side, as though trying to help him up or comfort him, and Kettricken's eyes were suddenly dangerously misty for someone threatening an armed man with a sword. Sooty had been Fitz's horse for years, she knew, and perhaps had picked up on her master's fondness of the jester.

The soldier stared at her sullenly, a safe distance away that she could neither slash at him nor kick him. Kettricken glared back, baring her teeth in a snarl as she said, “Stay away from me and mine, and tell Regal that King Verity Farseer’s line will not fail.”

And with that, she turned and clicked her tongue to urge both Sooty and Ruddy forward, wishing she had come up with something more profound, a proper threat to make Regal tremble in fear. The Fool flashed her a wan smile, but he looked even paler than usual, and was clinging to Sooty’s mane in a way that made her suspect that he was constantly about to slide off the mare’s broad, unsaddled back. They would have to keep to a sedate pace or risk him falling off.

That night, it was Kettricken who lead them to a small farm, wept and gave the farmer a tearful story of an abusive husband hunting her, begging for them to hide them for the night, and “just look at what he did to my poor little brother!” The farmer and his wife stared at the Fool, whose face had blossomed into a variety of bruises and little cuts, and who swayed dazedly by Kettricken’s side, clinging to her arm, and their suspicions gave way to horror and sympathy for the weary travelers. They were allowed to stay in a little store room, and given blankets, food, and warm water to wash their injuries, and assured that if anyone came looking for them, they would claim to have never seen anyone matching their description.

In the relative safety of their temporary quarters, they at first sat in weary silence, eating the bread and cheese and honeyed ham their hosts had given them. After the meal, Kettricken roused herself enough to insist on taking care of the Fool’s injuries, which the boy reluctantly allowed, but only as far as his face and forearms. The Fool seemed queasy and pale in a way that spoke of a dreadful headache, and his fingers fluttered to touch his lower ribs whenever he breathed too deeply or coughed, but the bruises on his face would fade, and the cuts were minor ones, from his fall rather than from the swords of the three soldiers. Kettricken was mostly unharmed, but now that the excitement was over, there was a dull throb in her left ankle, indicating that she had stepped on it funny when she had made her dash for the horses, and her hands were scraped by the rope she had used for reins. The warm water felt good on her cold fingers, and the Fool looked a bit better when his face was clean. Their hostess had given them a small pitcher of mulled cider, which they shared quietly after doing what they could about their injuries.

“Do you think I killed him?” the Fool asked suddenly after a long silence. He cradled his mug in his long fingers, and stared into it looking faintly sick. Kettricken reminded herself that he was a creature accustomed to sitting at King Shrew’d feet, indoors and away from harm for most of his time, and although he had demonstrated admirable hardiness during their journey, the fight had likely rattled him more than she had realized. She thought about the woman she had certainly killed, and pushed the thought from her mind, settling her hand firmly against the swell of her belly. A faint movement met her touch. She had been defending what little remained of her family.

She hesitated, thinking back to the brief glance of the man she had seen lying on the ground upon returning to the camp. “No, I don’t think so. I believe I saw his chest move.” She remembered the split kettle. “What happened?”

The Fool’s narrow shoulders moved up and down in a fluid shrug. “I ran out of pebbles, and used the kettle to block the next blow. It split, and didn’t seem like a viable shield anymore, so I threw it at him. It hit him in the forehead, and he went down.”

Despite herself, and to her mortification, Kettricken snorted into her mug trying to imagine that. “My knight,” she said, and burst into uncontrollable giggles. The cider was mild, but she was so weary, and so cold, and so shaken, and the warmth spreading in her belly together with their improbable escape made her feel giddy. “Who needs a Queen’s Guard, when one can have a fool! Ah, the songs they could sing of that battle!”

The Fool gave her an incredulous look, but his owlish blinking only made her laugh harder. The jester looked at her with an expression of helpless wonder and such fondness that it was almost painful, and then he was chuckling as well. “Ah, but my queen, I’m afraid my battle tactics have left us bereft of a kettle,” he played along, affecting a tragic air and miming a most elaborate bow, making her laugh so hard that she almost spilled her cider.

“Fear not, my knight!” she gasped between giggles, waving her hand generously. “As soon as I have pushed Regal down from Verity’s tower, I’ll see to it that you are properly knighted and made lord, and you’ll never run out of kettles again.”

They spent a good moment snickering into their mugs over that, almost delirious in their awe over their own survival, the Fool’s entire frame shaking with laughter. “Lord Fool!” he exclaimed at one point, “of Kettletown!” Then suddenly his face twisted, and he managed to grab a bucket from the corner of the little room just in time to be sick in it. Kettricken paused to give him a concerned look, and the Fool returned her gaze over the rim of the bucket with a doleful expression, his skin damp with sweat.

“I suppose I hit my head harder than I thought,” he surmised, before grinning faintly. “Perhaps in the next town, I can be the pregnant woman, and you can be the courageous warrior fool.”

And Kettricken laughed again until tears were streaming down her face, laughed so much it felt like sobbing.

xxxx

The farmer and his wife let them stay for two days so that the Fool could recover from his head injury. And a good thing that was, for he seemed disoriented and dizzy at best, and delirious and delusional at worst during those two days, often nodding off only to awaken wide-eyed and confused, murmuring in a strange language and evidently thinking his fantastical fever dreams real.

Kettricken worried for him when she could, but now that the immediate danger was over, she too found her attention wavering, her thoughts drawn again and again to the grim musings of what-ifs and regrets. The baby, her baby, Verity’s child, was quiescent in her womb, as though subdued by the same doubts. This, too, worried her, sometimes; she had helped female relatives during their pregnancies, and seemed to remember the babies being more active, often causing their mothers discomfort by shifting around. Perhaps that was not the case for all babies – perhaps Mountain babies were different. Or perhaps the baby was affected by the same listlessness as its mother.

Eventually, though, they had to continue their journey, and so they repaid the couple's kindness and perhaps bought their silence by giving them most of their remaining coin, and were on their way. Kettricken was once more riding Sooty at the Fool's insistence, and although she was not convinced that the jester was in any condition to fight the more willful Ruddy for control, she gave ground.

They managed to avoid Regal's men completely for several days, but as they approached Blue Lake, the soldiers seemed to become more numerous, frequenting every inn and town they visited. Evidently their escape across the lake had been anticipated, although the number of soldiers seemed excessive just for searching for them. After a few close encounters, they concluded that thicker disguises were required, and one day the Fool pilfered herbs and ingredients, mixed them in the bowl that had contained their shared supper, and dyed both their hair. Kettricken's thick yellow locks resisted the dye and only turned brown, but the Fool's fluffy white dandelion hair absorbed the concoction and turned out so dark as to seem thoroughly unnatural with his pale skin. When Kettricken expressed concern over this, he just smiled faintly and showed her a little jar of white face paint.

"What is the color they would least expect me to choose?" he asked with a small grin. Kettricken had to concede the point.

Their funds sadly diminished, they spent many a miserable evening in each new town trying to earn coin for lodging and food. Whenever they had even a single coin, the Fool bundled her in heavy cloaks and set her to nurse a single drink for the evening in the relative warmth of the cheapest tavern, while he juggled in the streets to earn them enough for a room and a meal. Everything they could trade had been traded already, but for the clothes that were the bare minimum for surviving in the frigid cold. The red ship raids were already affecting even people this far inland, though, and few had enough coin to toss to a juggler. Often they could barely manage a small room and a single meal, which they split, and sometimes they had to choose between a warm place to sleep and supper.

The cold, the constant hunger, and the hopelessness gnawed at them, and Kettricken found herself slipping further and further into a deep well of despair. Keeping themselves clothed and fed was enough of a struggle; how they could ever hope to earn enough to cross the Blue Lake was beyond her. Her baby grew and seemed to demand more of her strength and attention every day, and she had so little left to give.

She was vaguely aware that their shared meals tended to end up more on her plate than the Fool's, but whenever she tried to raise the subject, the boy shook his head and simply said that he could manage on very little for a while, but the new prince or princess could not. He made sense, but sometimes Kettricken stared at him shivering with cold, paler even than usual under his dyed dark hair, and wondered if she were not buying her child's life with his. Wondered if Verity would have approved of sacrificing his father's fool for his heir.

Shrewd would have, she knew, and perhaps that was why his fool thought it a good bargain as well. But Verity? _Oh, Verity._ Verity had never considered a prince more important than the lowest ranking soldier.

Verity. Her eyes filled with tears whenever she thought of him, and she spent her evenings weeping helplessly into her mug while the Fool performed outside. With the deepest regret, she remembered her words to Rurisk and Fitz back in Jhaampe, her fears that she was going to be woman to a stooped old man, shaking of hand and with little interest in a young wife. Bitterly, she wished for her husband, aged beyond his years, and promised all gods that she would never complain about Verity not having time for her, if only they returned him to her. Wished for a chance to erase it all, to unsay the words she had spoken to Rurisk and Fitz, to enter her marriage eagerly, happily, and enjoy it to its fullest. So much time wasted.

But her husband was gone, and so was her brother, and she had no idea what had become of Fitz. She had only a babe that required more than she felt she could give, and a fool that gave more than she thought he could safely part with. Neither could be burdened with her sorrow, her regrets. 

Her restraint did not save the Fool from sorrow, however. They had finally made it to Blue Lake, and had already passed several days spending almost as much as they earned, their payment for the crossing coming together woefully slowly. The night was particularly freezing, and Kettricken had pulled rank on the Fool, choosing to invest some of their coin on a drink for both of them to allow him to perform in the tavern's common room rather than out in the howling blizzard. She was nursing her drink and guarding his in the corner table, her hood pulled deep over her eyes, while he stood in a little opening singing playful, bawdy little songs while juggling. His songs made fun of the raiders and the coastal duchies' inability to defend their shores, and the inlanders banged their mugs against their tables and howled with laughter. Kettricken dared to hope that their drunken merriment would make for a generous mood. Many of the patrons wore Regal's colors, but so far it seemed that they were not suspicious, and indeed not searching for them tonight but enjoying a drink and grumbling and gossiping like men-at-arms everywhere.

"It's no wonder, really," one was saying to his fellows with a derisive chuckle. "They can't seem to guard their kings and queens, why would they fare any better with their shores?"

This was met with a roar of laughter from his companions. The Fool paused his singing, his movements becoming sharp and jerky for a moment, speeding up his juggling. One of the men looked at him curiously. Under her cloak, Kettricken tensed and allowed her fingers to drift closer to the pack at her feet and the stolen sword concealed within it, prepared to move, but then the jester launched into another song, a mindless little ditty. The man turned back to his fellows, joining their conversation.

"Thank El we have Regal on the throne now," he said, to a chorus of 'indeeds' and 'hear hears'. "No more gallivanting about bedding Mountain women and searching for pecksies! Now King Regal, he has no tolerance for the duplicity of the Chyurda, and will not just stand about while the Outislanders Forge our folk. I figure we'll see some real action against both the Outislanders and the Mountain Kingdom soon enough. Regal has already taken both Forged and Witted in hand."

This assessment was met with a round of cheers and several toasts to the king. Kettricken squeezed her mug between her hands and tried to imagine the soldier's throat in its place.

"It's a shame he couldn't save King Shrewd, through," an older man sighed. "Poor Regal, to have the crown thrust on him so suddenly, and so tragically! To have the widow of his own brother conspire with his nephew like that - if not for the quick thinking of his guards, they might have gotten both father and son that night."

The man who had stared at the Fool leaned forward eagerly. "What really happened then? I heard the Wit-Bastard had to be taken down by a whole group of men, so feral he was."

The older man shook his head, a dark frown on his face. "All I can say is I'm damned glad King Regal has finally tackled the problem with the Witted. At one point or another they will all snap and expose their true nature. I suspect even the Mountain princess had no idea what she allied herself with, or I can't fathom how they expected to get away with it. The Bastard killed Shrewd right in front of the king's own fool." There was a scatter of angry and horrified mutters at this, and Kettricken strained her ears to catch every bit of the conversation. "The poor creature was never sound to begin with, and they say he went quite mad after witnessing that. The guards and the king's healer found them just after the fact, the freak clinging to the king and wailing 'you murderer' over and over, and the Bastard just standing there looking at them. It's a damned shame he died in the dungeons before King Regal got to hang and burn him over water as was proper."

A sudden clattering startled Kettricken and interrupted the men nodding at one another and swearing revenge on all Witted people. The Fool's song had ended abruptly, the balls he had been juggling scattered all over the floor. The boy stood in the middle of the fallen spheres, his hands still raised to keep them aloft, his eyes wide and empty. His white face paint had started to flake, and suddenly he reminded Kettricken of nothing so much as a cracked porcelain doll.

"Hey, boy," one of the men said, the same one who had stared at the Fool before, moving to get up from his seat.

Kettricken was on her feet in an instant, grabbing the Fool by the arm just as he swayed. "Well, there you have it," she berated him loudly, giving him a small shake to make him stumble into her shoulder. "I told you you were too drunk to perform tonight, but did you listen? Of course not. Never do." She rolled her eyes, heaved a thoroughly disgusted sigh, pushed the Fool into a chair and made a show of gathering their belongings, keeping up an angry tirade until the soldiers turned away, chuckling to themselves. Still nattering at him, she yanked him back to his feet and marched him to the bar. Here she paid for a room from what little they had managed to scrape together for their crossing of the Lake, ordered a hot meal to be brought up later as though it didn't swallow up the very last of their coin, and then dragged both their packs and the boy up to their room. The Fool moved like a puppet where she pushed and pulled, his expression so terribly devoid of any emotion that she wondered if he had truly lost his mind.

In their room, she set their packs and cloaks aside, pushed him to sit on the edge of the single bed, and took him by the shoulders. "Fool," she implored, trying to get him to meet her eyes.

He blinked slowly and looked back. She wished he hadn't. His eyes were impossibly wide, his shattered heart laid bare in them. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment, and then Kettricken caught the edge of a horrified whisper.

"I killed him. He killed my king, and I killed him. I killed my Catalyst."

And then he was weeping uncontrollably, and without any conscious thought, Kettricken sat next to him, gathered him in her arms and held him while he cried. In his fine hair she shed her own tears for the boy she had once tried to poison, and who had since become her greatest ally. _Oh, Verity. I have lost another one. Forgive me, my love. I can't protect anything you leave in my care._

She had few enough tears left to give, it seemed, and soon she just sat rocking the shaking Fool as he sobbed, his face in his trembling hands and thin trails of white face paint snaking down his fingers. Her heart ached for him. What a terrible weight, for the last words he had said to his friend to be an accusation of murder, for those words to serve to condemn Fitz. She had no doubt that Regal would have found ways to blame the boy regardless of anything the Fool might have said or not said, but she also knew that such words could not console the jester now.

Eventually, the Fool cried himself to restless sleep, curled up in a small defensive ball on the bed. She covered him gently and sat for a while longer looking at him, twitching and murmuring in his sleep, his face a mess of stark white paint and tear-tracks. She felt unfathomably old and tired, suddenly, and for a moment swayed where she sat, unable to contemplate the enormity of her task ahead. Make their way to Jhaampe. Find out what had truly befallen Verity's company. Rouse an army, push back at Regal. Take back the Six Duchies. Somehow convince Verity's people, her people, to accept her in Verity's place until her child was old enough, despite making war on them.

Slowly, painfully, she straightened her back and wiped her face clean of tears. This was what it meant to be Sacrifice, she knew now. Not to throw herself before an arrow for one of her people, however much she wished for it to be so easy. To be Sacrifice was to carry on without her allies, her friends, to carry their pain and hurts. To carry them, if need be. To protect and guard her people even when they had turned against her, even if they would never know or care what she had given up for them. To be strong without strength.

The Fool slept restlessly and was disoriented and weepy like a child when she roused him to eat the dinner she had ordered earlier. He poked at the single bowl of stew listlessly for a while, and Kettricken managed to talk him through half of it before the dull, empty look in his eyes gave way to a frown as it dawned on him that she intended to feed the entire portion to him. He protested, feebly at first, and then to the point of what was almost a tantrum, until Kettricken relented and ate the rest of it under his intent stare. His eyes were strangely unfocused and shiny as he watched her finish their stew, and then he closed them and nodded to himself as though he had accomplished something, and curled up in fitful slumber again. By the morning, his fever was high enough that he no longer seemed to realize that Kettricken was feeding him the last of their dried meat.

The next few days were some of the worst she had ever lived through. With the Fool so incapacitated she struggled to regain some of her usual vigor and focus to sustain them. She gave the innkeeper the same story about an abusive husband and an injured younger brother she had given the farmer, and managed to talk her into allowing them to stay for two more nights by working in the kitchen, which also allowed her to smuggle a few morsels up to their room. Still she was hungrier than ever, and for the first time she truly understood how unevenly the Fool had split their meals. She was halving them exactly, now, worried that the boy's condition would deteriorate if he didn't receive enough sustenance, and her body was screaming for the missing half of what it was accustomed to.

Half the time, the Fool was too groggy and feverish to tell the difference; indeed, he sometimes seemed to think she was Fitz, and sometimes talked to her in a strange language in a small voice, as though remembering his childhood. Other times, when he was more coherent and his fever seemed to let up a little, he fought her fiercely, only to alarm her all the more.

"But you promised," he would whisper, glassy-eyed and dangerously close to tears again, "My queen, you promised you would let me protect you. Protect the baby. There must be an heir to the Farseer line, there must, and I have made such a mess of it, and killed all the others. Sent Verity to his death, looking for Elderlings. Made Shrewd spare Fitz, and then Chivalry had to abdicate and was killed. And Fitz, my Fitz. Please, my queen, let me make it right."

His wild rambling words frightened her, and when she wasn't busy in the kitchen, she tried to figure out a way to contact a smuggler to take them across the lake. She could barely work enough to earn them and their mounts lodgings, and had abandoned any idea of gathering enough coin on her own. Both the Fool's fever and dark mood gnawed at her like her constant hunger, and she worried that perhaps his earlier head injury had caused this fever and his fey imagination. If only she could get him to Jhaampe, she knew Jonqui could help him. But how to get him that far? Build a raft?

Eventually she hardened her heart and walked up to the captain of a small merchant vessel, desperately scouring the market for enough cargo to take back over the Lake to pay for his expenses. She offered him either Sooty or Ruddy upon transporting both horses and their riders safely to the other side, stamping down any consideration over what Fitz would have said, or what the Fool would say. The captain was skeptical at first, but followed her to take a look at the mounts, and seemed particularly impressed with Ruddy.

Kettricken haggled until the man agreed to hold on to the horse for a full month after their transaction, and assured him that she intended to send someone to buy him back as soon as she made it home and had access to more money, and that she was willing to buy him back at a high enough price to cover any expenses and to make any earlier offers unappealing. If she perished on her way and no one came to claim the stallion within a month, Ruddy would be his to keep or sell. The captain eyed her frayed clothes and messy hair with its fading dye with an unflattering look that said he doubted he would ever see that money, but evidently times were hard enough for him as well that he was willing to consider Ruddy, even with the expense of his upkeep for a month, a bargain.

He was right to be suspicious, she thought sourly as she headed back to their inn, for she had always had little to call her own, and most of that she had taken to Buckkeep with her and left there. It was not the way of the Chyurda for royalty to possess a lot of wealth; all was considered the property of their people. Still, she hoped that even with her disgraceful return with her husband's relatives snapping at her heels, her friends and family would come to her aid.

Getting on his feet and dressed for the journey was clearly taxing to the Fool, still weak with fever, but he made no complaint. Unusually silent and hollow-eyed, he let Kettricken lead him to their mounts, already shivering even before they stepped outside. When he reached out to take Ruddy's makeshift reins in his hand - for they had lost all their horses' equipment when their camp had been attacked - Kettricken was struck by how bony his wrist looked. She averted her eyes, her throat tight. The grief and the privation of their journey was visible on both their faces, she knew, and neither could claim a youthful, childish roundness of features anymore, but it was jarring to see it suddenly so plainly, and to see the difference between them, wrought by the Fool's illness and their unevenly split meals.

It was only when they were well on their way across the Lake that she dared to tell him how they were paying for their transportation. He was silent for such a long time that she wondered if he had heard her.

"Fitz would never let us," he finally murmured, his vacant eyes fixed on some distant point she couldn't see.

Kettricken nodded slowly, and didn't point out that Fitz wasn't here and would never allow or disallow anything again.

Over the journey across the Lake, the Fool's fever slowly let up. Kettricken had feared that the freezing winds blowing freely over open water and rocking the little vessel would agitate his condition further, but by some miracle, he seemed to be getting better. His skin was made dry by the cold and peeled off in flakes, but when the worst of it was over, he seemed a somewhat healthier hue. His dyed hair was slowly losing color, fading a shade or two paler each time he washed it, but there was still a feverish shine to his eyes that made them seem almost yellow. 

When it was time to pay for their crossing, Kettricken considered, for the first time in her life, going back on her word and just riding out, certain that the captain could never catch them on foot. Next to her, the Fool stood with his cheek pressed gently against Ruddy’s neck, his gloved hands stroking the stallion’s mane in goodbye. Ruddy turned his head, nosed at him curiously, pranced a bit in anticipation of setting out, ready to make the Fool fight him at every turn. He looked forward to it as a game of sorts, and looked at Kettricken quizzically when the Fool made no move to pull himself up on his back, but only gave him a final pat and moved to take Sooty’s reins.

Kettricken fixed a stern look at the captain, as royal as she could manage in her current state. “I trust you to take good care of him until someone returns to pick him up. One month you have promised me; if you sell him before that to anyone but my messenger, I promise I will hunt you down. If you hear no word from me by the end of a month, you are free to do as you please. My messenger will know his name, Truth, and that’s how you will know he comes from me.” She dared not trust the man with the horse’s real name, because not all of Regal’s men were inlanders, and some might recognize Burrich’s pride and remember his name. Giving him the name of Verity’s mount might at least confuse them, if not convince them that this was indeed not the same horse.

The man nodded, and held her gaze seriously for long enough that she felt she could trust him to believe her. Then the Fool helped her mount Sooty, and they set off towards Jhaampe. The Fool walked by their side in silence and did not glance back once, as though there was no more room for hurt in his heart, but Kettricken could almost feel Fitz’s horrified stare and Burrich’s disapproving glare on her back, and hunched her shoulders as though to protect herself.

They skirted around Moonseye to avoid the Six Duchies presence there, but from there, their troubles were mostly related to food and shelter. Alarmed by the Fool's leanness after his illness, Kettricken was adamant on splitting their supplies evenly, even when the jester pointed out that he had been dividing them into three, not two. She countered that while she was the one eating for two, she was also the one riding Sooty and thus able to conserve her strength, whereas the Fool was struggling through the heavy snow beside them. He refused to ride double, and she both understood why, and approved of his decision. Fitz would have never agreed to riding double on such uneven terrain, where every step could hide a tree root or a rabbit burrow underneath the opaque layer of snow.

It was late night when they finally made it to Jhaampe. Kettricken was drooping and nodding off on Sooty's back, swaying along with her gentle, steady steps. The Fool was more hanging on to her reins than leading her, his head bowed and his feet barely rising enough to move in the thick snow. The temperature had dropped with nightfall, and the heavy, wet snow of the day was now crunching under them. It had been hours since either had said a word.

There were guards walking up to them. For a moment, Kettricken's tired mind fumbled around that, for there had never been guards patrolling Jhaampe before, but she supposed the Duchies soldiers gathering around the Blue Lake and any rumors they might have heard from Buckkeep were reason enough. They questioned them angrily, then exclaimed in amazement when she raised her head to meet their eyes. She was so tired she could barely see them in the dark, and the once-familiar rise and fall of Chyurdan seemed almost an incomprehensible mumble. Someone was talking to her, lifting a lantern to see her face better, and there were people running and calling for someone.

Then, all of a sudden, the guards surrounding them parted, and it was her father standing before her, his feet wrapped in furs and a heavy cloak around him, but with his nightshirt flapping in the night wind. Staring up at her with an expression of such fear and hope that it twisted something in her heart.

"Oh, my child," he whispered, and the wind almost swallowed his words.

Kettricken felt hot tears on her face and wondered that she still had any left to shed. "I'm home, Father," she tried to say, but it came out as a whimper, and then she was sliding off Sooty and throwing herself in her father's arms. Safe, safe at last.

Behind her, the Fool folded to his knees in the snow and buried his face in his hands.

xxxx

Verity was gone. This was true, now, no longer one of Regal's lies; she had seen the bones herself, found the cloak on which her hands had embroidered the Farseer buck. Where there had been uncertainty before, there was now only a gaping hole, a raw spot where her love had been. 

She focused her mind on Regal, on plans and maps and letters, on paving the way for her child, for Verity's child, to the throne. Chade - for this was the name of the man who had helped them escape Buckkeep, she learned - visited, brought her news of the Duchies, of King's Circles and Forged and of the hunt for all Witted. Her father fortified the borders between the Mountain Kingdom and Six Duchies for the first time since Chivalry had been King-in-Waiting. She threw herself into these talks, these war councils, and argued for action. Her grief was a layer of earth, threatening to cover and suffocate her and bury her next to her husband, and her fury the only thing that kept it at bay. 

The Fool followed her like a puppy, silent and inactive now that he had seen her safely to her family, but always present, still guarding her child. He would curl up in a chair in the back whenever she conferred with her father and sit quietly, cradling a cup of brandy or spiced tea in his long fingers. Even washed, warmly clothed and properly fed, he couldn’t seem to shake the cold that had settled in him, bone-deep, during their journey.

He went about in soft woolen robes, now; his hair had lost almost all of its dyed color, but still retained the slightest bit of tawniness, and the new, amber tint to his eyes seemed a permanent thing, not a trick of light or a feverish shine. With these subtle changes to his coloration, and with the last traces of childish roundness having given way to narrow, angular features and a perpetually serious mouth and sorrowful eyes, Chade scarcely recognized him when he first visited. The look on the old man’s face when he first saw them was enough to clue Kettricken in on how altered they both looked. Privately, when he was leaving and Kettricken saw him to his mount while the Fool slept curled up in his chair, he gave her a subdued look and said, “How my brother would grieve to see him so changed.”

As do I, she thought, and sometimes she knew that something vital had gone out of the boy when the news of Fitz's death had reached them, that this was a mere shell that followed her now, clinging only to the thought of a Farseer heir. It was unnerving to feel that she now carried not only her own whole reason to live, but his as well.

At the same time, his was the only company she could tolerate when her time neared and she was too ill to move much. Everyone else fussed about her, tried to get her to sit down, put her feet up, mixed tonics for her nausea and aching back and limbs, prodded her with questions and cautionary tales. The Fool just sat with her, sometimes reading or idly carving a piece of wood, but content to share her tense silences. Her female relatives were always near, but thankfully did not take it amiss that she didn't want their chatter and instructions just now. A small part of Kettricken smirked at that, at how scandalized the court of Buckkeep would be over the late King's fool attending to her alone, and her in such a delicate state.

He was with her when her water broke, and he was the one whose presence she requested when it was over, when her cousins had gently helped her wash and changed her bloodied linens. When they allowed her to hold her child, still and unmoving, for a while.

The Fool joined her in her chamber, quietly as mist drifting through the door flap. She didn't need to look at him; a glimpse of his defeated posture was all she needed to know that he had been told. They sat in a silence as fragile as a butterfly's wing, Kettricken holding the much too light and cold bundle in her arms with her eyes closed, willing herself dead beside Verity after all, and the Fool with tears streaming soundlessly down his face. She knew he was wondering, just as she was, if the food she had fed to him when he had been ill would have made a difference. If they had spent one cold night too many outdoors. If they had pushed forward too hard and rested too little. If they should have noticed it somehow, realized that the life within her was failing.

If there had been something they could have done differently.

"Kin-right," she said finally, calmly, after what felt like hours. "By our law, if kin forgive kin, no other can do otherwise." The Fool turned a wide-eyed stare at her, shocked as though she had slapped him. "And if kin seek justice upon kin for injury to kin, no other can contest that, either. Regal may be my kin now, but he is not immune to justice."

"What will it matter?" he asked her disconsolately. "Regal will be the last Farseer king, and all my life for naught after all. I have failed, my queen, and the night is already falling." His words made no sense, but rarely they had since he had heard of Fitz's death and been taken by his dark moods.

"And does that release us from our vows to the throne? To the people of Six Duchies?" She found she was suddenly utterly serene, her fury now a mirror-bright sea of unfathomable depths, hiding serpents and jagged rocks under thin ice. On that ice she would let Regal parade, thinking he had won.

No one's wife, and no one's mother. A widow, a traitor, and a fugitive. Regal had made her this. And a traitor to him she would be, as much as he had been to his own family, and tear down everything Regal thought he had gained. Hers would be the words that revealed the truth of his crimes to his followers. Verity's would be the people who turned against their false ruler. Her child's would be the justice that tumbled the would-be king from his throne.

And one day, the ice would no longer hold his weight.

The Fool, however, had only eyes for the child in her arms, the symbol of his lost hope. "Have you decided on a name?" he whispered.

She sighed. "Sacrifice," she said. "His name is Sacrifice."

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I thought making RotE even angstier was a great idea, and now I've gone and made myself sad. ;__;


End file.
